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Show 146 somehow threaded together, part of any skein of memory? Where was the ghost? Where was the condensation on the glass of the maker's soul, the breath? Visceral explosions and implosions . . . Jesus Christ! "You teach art?" The girl sitting at the next table had been watching. She was twenty-five, maybe, and had a copy of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues sitting, dog-eared, in front of her. Do I teach art?! "Sometimes," Hunt said. "Really? What times are those?" the girl asked. "When I meet with students," Hunt said. "Listen: Please -- please . . . don't ask cute questions." He thought of Leah and the boys in Tucson, hoped that everything was all right. "Well, sorry," the girl said. And she opened her book. Hunt studied her: cheekbones with a fine line and balance; her mouth and chin seemed strong; her eyes, though, seemed sloppy, a hurried part of her anatomy. "It's just a day," Hunt said, "when I don't have a lot of patience, really, for archness." "Fine," the girl said, not looking up. "Mostly, I paint," Hunt said, trying to mend something, unable to stay a basic caring for other people. "I teach very little." "So go and paint," the girl said. Her hair made lines like clean wood-smoke, falling over her brow and down and onto the book and table. Hunt saw ash stains, spots on her denim jacket. Maybe he would paint his mother, eyes flashing, laughing, not an ounce of gravity. He got up and took a final drink of coffee. He checked his watch. He would go back, yes, and be with her. Lord: People like his mother were leaving the world - and the likes of this |
